Uncharted
by R. Scott
Summary: She remembered the sight of her own naked body in the mirror, the way she had traced the map of bruises and blood, and thought his face to be a perilous terrain, a land so dangerous no creature could survive its wilderness.


She was getting better at it. Moving, ghost like, through the Red Keep as swiftly and gracefully as a summer breeze. She was born of the North, born of winter, but she could sway and sigh as though the sweetest summer flowed through her veins. Floating on her feet had become easier, somehow, because she knew that some molten heat, some bright summer flame was inside her, knew that this strength was caged deep within her. Each time she felt the hollow ache of her bones and saw the brown, mottled stain of her own blood straining to burst from her winter skin, each time the nightmares of his brutality assaulted her, each time she ran her tongue along the coppery ridges of her lips…she told herself this. That one day she could burn brighter than all of them.

But of course it was no real power if she could not access it. Instead she was left with this broken, ragged shell, and as she slowly matured it seemed to her all the more horrific, the bruises reaching across her expanding hips like spilt ink on parchment. She'd gaze at the strange bare body in the mirror, unable to see herself anymore, just a rough map of scars across a bizarre woman-like girl. She'd run her fingers along the veins that peered through her papery skin and imagined that they were rivers, long and deep and flowing, still flowing despite war ravaging upon their banks. She would allow a half smile, reminded of her mother, and quickly banish the thought.

For she couldn't think of her old life now, just as she could no longer have faith in the Old Gods. Too old and frail to protect her father, a grown man, a man of honour. What chance did she have, a foolish girl fading with a broken, warped shape of a woman taking her place, with no honour left in her bones, just empty words and songs. She was so proper and dainty as a girl, she had often wondered if she had any Stark in her at all, any of the roughness and might that came with the biting cold of the snow…

None of that mattered now. Not a Stark, not a Tully. Now she was from a no-place, with no banners or words.

Just a cage.

Her fingers trailed along the bloodied wall beside her as she crept slowly back to her chambers. A celebration of some sort, of some victory, drawing to a violent close. She could no longer distinguish laughter from war rallies and as the cries swelled up around her she had snuck away into the shadows, following the candlelight sparingly. Joffrey had been so drunk he'd vomited blood. His mother had taken him away and it hadn't taken long for the sight of the red mess to stir up unsavoury slurs and battle cries, death on every mans lips in the rush of it. Sansa had needed no encouragement to flee.

She caught her breath, stumbling slightly as the process of fleeing from a violent crowd jarred her memories. It still haunted her, that day, never gradually and always furiously, blinding her at any moment. She marvelled at how strange memories seemed to work, thought it odd that those of happiness seemed to abandon her yet the worst moments of her life never failed to grab her by the throat. She swallowed, the imprints of their rough hands on her thighs still seeming to ache. That was a pain that never seemed to fade.

She staggered, struggling to breathe now, and leaned against the wall. She was not far from her room, she knew, having memorised the paths that lead there, yet it felt as though she would have to travel across oceans to reach its temporary solace. The shadows seemed to engulf her, and she thought she saw the yellow moon peering at her through the windows, wondering at her foolishness for taking the path alone. Would she ever learn?

"Will you ever learn?"

She stifled a gasp as the glow of the moon disappeared, replaced by the wavering shadow of what, in this ghastly light, appeared to be a monster. She'd run right into him.

"You're trembling, girl."

"You frightened me."

She heard a muffled laugh, if you could call it that, and noticed for the first time that he was not the sturdy, rigid presence he usually was, and instead seemed to move slightly. He was swaying, his footing wavering, his balance off.

"That's all I ever seem to do," he said, and his face appeared to her in the flickering light of the candle beside her. He was smiling slightly at his joke; she saw his crooked yellow teeth, his dark, dank hair hanging limp over even darker eyes. And his burns, a sight that was far more hideous in the shadow somehow, rendered more monstrous. She remembered the sight of her own naked body in the mirror, the way she had traced the map of bruises and blood, and thought his face to be a perilous terrain, a land so dangerous no creature could survive its wilderness.

"You followed me," she muttered quietly.

"Better me than one of those other brutes, surely," he murmured. She noticed a slur in his voice that wasn't usually there. He was very drunk, she realised, drunker than she'd ever seen him. "They're calling for blood down there, and I'd rather it not be yours."

She swallowed at that and felt her face burning, memories of his bloodied face as he'd cut through the flesh of her attackers suddenly assaulting her vision.

"I would have thought you'd be wading into the melee, sword in hand," she said, frustrated at the way her voice trembled slightly. "Killing is a…passion of yours, is it not?"

She waited for his fury, held her breath, braced herself for it.

Instead he looked at her oddly, frowning slightly, the arch of his brow deforming his face ever further. She could not take her eyes off it, that hideous scarring, the way it clung to him, the way it defined him.

"Not much room for _passion_ in this life, girl," he said in a quiet rasp, stalking a little closer to her as she pressed her back up against the cold wall. "You take it where you can get it."

"And you find it in taking life? In death?"

His smile held malice, and she felt impossibly small beneath his gaze, a gaze that was growing darker at every word she uttered, eyes so full of shadows that they devoured the tiny reflection of that flickering candle.

"Tell me, child. What is there in _life_ that could inspire the same joy?"

The markings on her skin felt as though they were burning afresh, her body suddenly ready to fail her, to collapse in on itself. Perhaps, when she was a child, she could have answered that question. Family, laughter, love. The joys of her life were once so obvious; her mother and father, her brothers and sisters, a song that filled her heart as she saw the sun in her future, a melody so sweet it could not possibly leave her. But perhaps that's all they were, simples songs, the joys of a naïve child, a stupid girl. Now she belonged to a world where the hearts of every man around her were as black as thick tar, sticky and heavy and holding her in their grip, in their prison. She wondered if the only joy in _this_ world, this world she knew so little of, was found in bloodshed, as he so hatefully claimed.

She wondered how she would feel if she took a dagger and slit Joffrey's throat. How would that song sound?

She realised as she thought of this that the giant of a man before her had stepped even closer, seemingly unaware of his own movements. She stared up at him, straining her neck. He appeared to be in some kind of pain as he gazed at her.

"No answer?" he whispered. His eyes were blacker than the darkest heart in this place, she thought, but they did not inspire fear in her. Instead she felt herself grow bolder, not knowing how or why, but feeling that summer sun she knew to be inside of her flicker to life.

"There is no joy in this place," she whispered. "Only relief from pain. Only brief moments of solace, moments of silence amongst screams."

She held her hand to one of the ghastly scars that ran just below her neck, and she watched as his gaze followed her movements, a strange kind of desperation there. She could feel her heartbeat beneath her palm fluttering like a wild bird in a trap.

"I've been close to death," she continued. "And some days, I have wished for death. But each of these marks, each hurt, every drop of blood…reminds me I hold on to my life…and that it is the only treasure I have left. _Life itself_ is my only joy, now."

She stepped forward. They were almost touching.

"Thanks to you."

He didn't move, didn't speak. But the pain that had been building in his eyes was slowly consuming him, she thought; he stank of wine and hate and blood, always blood, and she sucked it into her lungs. He was captivated, his still gaze fixed upon her hand where it rested above her bosom, his face falling slack as it rose and fell with each breath she took.

"So take it," she whispered recklessly, "cut me open and take my life, take my joy. Would that bring you happiness?"

And he leaned in so close she could hear the jagged pounding of his heart, the blood in his soul, and he seemed to shudder. Tears burnt her, fell from her, betraying her, and she wanted to scream, feeling more powerless than she ever had before.

There was a long silence before he quietly answered her.

"You say yourself, there is no happiness in the world…but there are a great many pleasures in this life of which _you _are still unaware of, girl. You've never cut through an enemy and watched the life leave him and felt yours affirmed. You've never been in the blissful numbness of wine and ale, soothed by the luxuries of ignorance."

He paused briefly and let his eyes travel across her face and then her body leisurely.

"And you've never been fucked."

She could feel the blood draining from her, thought she must look as white as the snow in which she was born. He leaned in closer.

"Do you dream about his kisses, his soft words, his loving caresses?" He whispered each with a frightening vehemence and she clamped her eyes shut. "Your life with him was to be a song, wasn't it? A King and his Queen in love. Tell me…does the thought of _fucking_ him drive you wild?"

She let out a miserable kind of cry, so quiet, but he continued on, even as she shuddered, even as she wrapped he arms around herself and waited for all the darkness around her to swallow her whole. He spoke so slowly, with such deliberation, his mouth close to her ear.

"Does it ever consume you, the thought of letting him fuck you, letting him have you, all of you? Every last inch of you?"

She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and finally looked up at him, tears blinding her.

"You saved my life that day," she sobbed. "Tell me, was it only to torment me? You seem to take as much pleasure from it as you do in taking lives."

In a sudden movement that was both rough and gentle, he took her chin in his fingers and pulled it towards him, never taking his eyes off hers. And she suddenly realised the darkness that resided there, the pain, the desperation, all of it…

But she would not let herself think it, could not believe it to be true. She alone could inspire such tempestuous darkness in a man. She was surely not the source of his sorrow.

He spoke then. His voice was so low that she felt it deep down in her belly.

"I'd never kill again," he growled, "if it meant I could fuck you, Little Bird. If it meant I could have _every last inch of you_."

Nothing else around her seemed to exist in the wake of his words. She felt utterly numb. They were both so still that all the fire and ice in the world could burn to ash and melt to seas and neither would notice or care.

A footstep bellowed in the silence like thunder. He staggered backwards as if she'd burnt him, a look on his face that was the picture of utter horror and she couldn't register any of it as another shadow danced across the floor.

"My lady?"

Shae's voice shattered through the world, enough to make her jump from her skin, enough to turn her head, enough time for him to vanish into the darkness. Her handmaid managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

He had seen it, she thought. His eyes had burnt right through and he had seen that summer sun in her. The only treasure she had left.

And he wanted it.

That was when Sansa realised she had more power in this place than she thought.


End file.
